


make a dragon wanna retire, man

by foreverwriting9



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Domestic, Dragons, F/M, shameless fluff, the most ridiculous thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4165377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverwriting9/pseuds/foreverwriting9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara walks into the console room on a Monday and announces, without preamble, “I think we should get a pet.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	make a dragon wanna retire, man

**Author's Note:**

> I genuinely don't even know how this happened. 
> 
> For Sami, because this should fulfill my dragon quota for the rest of forever.
> 
> EDIT: This now comes with artwork by the lovely jixico, which you can see [here](http://pumpkaboom.tumblr.com/post/126239572450/ive-been-reading-doctor-who-fanfic-again)

Clara walks into the console room on a Monday and announces, without preamble, “I think we should get a pet.”

He frowns. "But I don't want a pet." He's welding a control panel back together, and it's rather loud, so he assumes that's why she acts like he hasn't said anything. It's not because she's ignoring his input. It's not that at all.

"Is there a sort of..." she trails off, throwing herself down in the console seat as she gestures vaguely. "An intergalactic pet shop! Is there an intergalactic pet shop aliens use when they want a pet? I suppose we could always get a dog or a cat, but a pet from another planet would be - "

He stops welding. There's no way she's being serious. The two of them, the TARDIS, all of time and space at their fingertips, and a _pet_? No. No, no, no. "Clara, we can't possibly get a pet. We were going to stop at the outer ring of Halodor Nine, remember?" He's not whining, he just really wants to get on with their scheduled plans. "There was going to be treasure hunting and star deer tracking and apple tarts the size of your head!"

She points over his shoulder to the time rotor. "Did you know you have a time machine?"

"That's not the point, Clara," he says, waving his sonic screwdriver at her. If he didn't have a blowtorch in one hand he would really consider running both his hands through his hair in frustration right now. "If we have a pet we won't be able to do things like that. We won't be able to gallivant around planets on a whim because you'll need to get back to feed it or bathe it or something."

"Can't the TARDIS look after it for us when we're gone?"

He scoffs. "The TARDIS is a highly complex masterpiece of Time Lord engineering, it was hardly built just so you could slack off on your chores."

“But, Doctor - ”

“No. No, I am absolutely putting my foot down.”

Clara makes a face. That pouting one with the eyes and it’s not fair because he would do anything to get her to stop making that face and...He gives in, of course he does, but only because it's her.

 

* * *

 

There is an intergalactic pet shop.

It's on a moon somewhere, hidden in the depths of space, and surrounded mostly by stars. A little lonely, but the shop itself is bright and warm, painted in pastel shades - the Doctor dislikes it already.

When they step through the entrance together, Clara beams at him. "This is going to be _fun_ , Doctor."

He makes a noncommittal sound, shooting her an entirely unconvinced look and stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets. He is, in fact, sulking. Unfortunately, she's not letting him dampen her enthusiasm.

She slides a hand through the crook of his arm, leaning her cheek against his shoulder for the space of a few pulse-stuttering seconds. "Hand on my heart," she says. "It'll be fun."

 

* * *

 

He's about ninety-five percent sure they're going to end up with some ridiculous, alien-bred pet that entire galaxies will laugh about as soon as he's not around to glare at them. Like a three-headed kitten or the rainbow colored descendant of the famous Galápagos tortoises that Clara's currently holding out to him.

He frowns at the scaly baby tortoise face only about a short arm's length from his own. "That's going to grow so much bigger, Clara. We'd hardly have room for it in the TARDIS." Just to be polite, he reaches a hand out toward the creature, prepared to awkwardly pat its head. The tortoise's mouth stretches open wide in a yawn and then snaps shut.

"Did you see that, Clara?" the Doctor exclaims, snatching his hand back and then cradling his fingers protectively to his chest. "It tried to rip my hand off!"

She doesn't seem all that concerned if he's being honest with himself, and she might even mutter something like _Ever the drama queen_ under her breath. But she does put the tortoise down, which is a relief.

"How about this instead?" she asks, holding up what looks to be a cross between a very furry puppy and a rock. It lets out a high-pitched _chirrup_ and wriggles excitedly in Clara's grasp.

He's quite sure no one in the history of pet store patrons has ever been as disgruntled by the experience as he is now. "I'm a Time Lord, Clara," he says, utterly aghast, flicking his coat so that the red lining shows and he looks more properly intimidating. "I need something a little more dignified than a fluffy pet rock."

There's a good chance she might hit him now; he can see the thought filtering across her face, her muscles tensing just so. He wonders idly if she'll leave his body for the storekeeper to clean up or if she'll dispose of it herself. Probably the second, if he knows Clara at all.

By the time he realizes he should actually be spending these precious seconds bracing himself for whatever physical punishment Clara's about to dole out, her attention isn't even on him anymore.

From somewhere near their feet comes a hoarse, bark-like sound and then Clara is bending down and scooping up the source of the sound, cradling it in her arms like a baby.

The creature and the Doctor blink owlishly at each other for a moment, and then:

"That's a dragon."

Clara smiles, sliding a hand along the dragon's scales. In the pet store lighting they shimmer red-orange, so they look like a fire beneath her fingertips, a just-sparked inferno poured into a tiny creature with wings and claws and teeth. "I like him."

The Doctor whips his sonic screwdriver out from one of his pockets and runs a scan on the creature, frowning when it begins making a sound strangely like purring. Clara seems delighted by this development, turning her attention even more fully to the dragon and scratching a place just under its jaw that makes the rumbly purring even louder. The Doctor clears his throat. "So it's a miniature dragon," he says, once Clara is actually looking at him. "Bred on the planet Pyrofael as their equivalent to a guard dog. Intensely smart, so it can't be outwitted by even the sneakiest thief or intruder, and loyal above all else. Should stay 'round about this size for the rest of its life."

The dragon suddenly moves to reach his still-outstretched sonic, but catches part of the Doctor's coat sleeve in his mouth instead and so satisfies himself with nibbling along its edge.

Clara laughs. "This one," she says. "We absolutely have to get this one."

 

* * *

 

For reasons that she probably thinks are very funny, she decides to name him Smith.

The four-eyed shopkeeper squints at both of them when Clara tells him what to put on the adoption certificate. “How... _uninspired_ ,” he says.

The Doctor just sighs.

 

* * *

 

The TARDIS is surprisingly okay with their new addition. In fact, sometimes she seems downright delighted.

When they first brought Smith onboard the Doctor had wondered if maybe the TARDIS would put up such a fight that they would have to return Smith and that would be the end of that. But Clara had patted the wooden doors and whispered sweetly, "Look, we got a new friend for you to play with," like they were introducing the TARDIS to her newest sibling, and then everything had been...fine, actually.

Smith had gone inside and curled around a lever on the console, the TARDIS had burbled cheerily, and Clara had poked him in the ribs with a finger, completely undeterred by his scowl.

"See?" she'd said in an annoyingly teacher-like tone. "I told you today was going to be fun."

The Doctor's only response had been what he assumed was probably his hundredth sigh that day.

This is his life now. Sighing and dragons and tiny, persistent English teachers - this is what he has to live with.

 

* * *

 

"Clara?" The Doctor sticks his head into Clara's room. "Clara?"

When it becomes fairly evident that she's not hiding under the bed or maybe just lost inside her closet, he spins back around and walks down a couple doors until he finds the entrance to the library.

"Clara?"

The Doctor _hmphs_ to himself and then turns back the way he came. Once the door has shut automatically behind him, he glances up at the hallway ceiling. "A little help would be nice," he points out. The TARDIS makes a sound that vaguely reminds him of someone rolling their eyes, but a few seconds later a small, wrought iron door appears to his right.

“Thanks.”

He opens the door to an unending stretch of green, bounded by towering trees and blue sky. When he sticks his tongue out, the air tastes like salt and sunlight on grass. It’s a park - a park from Copenhagen circa 1963, to be precise.

Something sharp nips at his ankle.

His first instinct is to scan the grass because he definitely doesn’t remember Denmark having carnivorous grass yet, but then he catches a streak of red out of the corner of his eye, slinking among the grass, and Clara’s high, clear voice rings out.

“Look at that, Smith! Did you find someone else to play with?” She steps out from the shade of a nearby tree, a ball in hand and the edges of her mouth curved upward. She looks...content, at home even, which is ridiculous because they’re standing in the digital copy of a park from 1960s Copenhagen with a dragon at their feet. Not to mention the whole alien-technology-disguised-as-a-police-box thing they have going on.

Clara tilts her head at him, brow furrowing. He can see the question poised on her lips; he knows his continued silence is unnerving and his intense staring maybe a little creepy, but his tongue suddenly seems to be taking up too much room in his mouth.

He swallows roughly and opens his mouth to try saying _anything_ when Smith bites his ankle again.

“Ow!” The Doctor frowns down at the dragon, who is just visible above the tall blades of grass. “No biting,” he intones sternly, pointing a finger.

Clara clucks her tongue, and for a moment the Doctor thinks that she’s on his side. But then she says, “That’s just his way of saying hello. Plus I think he might be teething right now or something, so. Two birds with one stone, you know.”

He wants, so desperately, to tell her that no, he doesn't know. He doesn't know what she's saying and he also definitely doesn't know why they're sharing custody of a ne'er do well miniature dragon. Somehow, it ends up coming out as a rather tight "Yes."

If she notices the tone of his voice she doesn't say anything about it. Instead, she kneels down in the grass and wiggles her fingers at Smith. He races over immediately, pacing back and forth beneath her outstretched hand so that she doesn't even have to move to pet him.

The Doctor makes a noise in the back of his throat at the sight. Sometimes the dragon's need for Clara's affection is a little too disgustingly obvious. He wishes it would stop.

At the sound, Clara peers up at him. "Why were you looking for me?"

There are suddenly more reasons than he can think of. Rather stupidly, _I missed you_ is one of them.

“I um. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “There’s a planet,” he finally manages to spit out, gesturing vaguely behind him toward the door. “And there’s a very exciting thing happening there and I just wondered if you wanted to go.”

She looks completely bewildered by his poorly patched together sentence.

And then Smith, apparently annoyed with the loss of Clara’s attention, crawls up her arm until he comes to settle on her shoulder, where he promptly begins chewing on the ends of her hair.

“Smith!” she scolds in a half laughing, half reprimanding tone. “No! No eating hair!” She manages to disentangle the dragon without doing any more damage to her hair and then cradles him securely in her arms. “How about we go in a little bit?” Clara asks, once she’s turned back to the Doctor. “I think I need to play with Smith for a while longer so that he’ll be less rambunctious. Is that okay?”

The Doctor nods once, already on his way out so that she won’t see the look of disappointment cross his face. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

The TARDIS automatically closes the door behind him once he’s left the park, which is far less satisfying than if he’d been able to slam it shut in righteous indignation. As it is, the door slides silently shut and the Doctor has to satisfy himself with a swift kick to the hallway wall.

It's not that he's jealous, really. Time Lords are above such petty things like jealousy.

 

* * *

 

(But there are... _moments_. Like when he finds Smith and Clara curled up together in his chair. Or when she scoops Smith up after a long day and takes him into the library to read. Or when the TARDIS is being particularly recalcitrant with him but then he'll find her playing with Smith, strobing lights down hallways for the dragon to chase.

Those are the moments that make his skin prickle hotly and make his hearts do something funny in his chest.

Sometimes he wants to lean down and hiss in Smith's face: _My Clara. My TARDIS. They're mine._

But. He's not jealous.)

 

* * *

 

Clara finds him in the console room several hours later, standing in front of a chalkboard and staring ferociously at a string of equations he’s written out.

“Doctor?”

He waves a dismissive hand at her, not even bothering to look up. “It’s too late to go to Levixaxious,” he says. “The solar eclipse festival is probably over by now.”

She doesn't move. He can feel her eyes on him, _knows_ she's making the exact same face that landed him with a dragon; he won't give in this time.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Clara take a step closer. The TARDIS hums, as though goading her on.

He sighs, finally turning to look at her fully. Once Clara and the TARDIS team up together anything he wants or prefers stands no chance. "What?" he snaps.

“Why don’t you take a break?”

“I don’t need a break,” he insists stiffly. “I’m not tired.”

He can tell that she just manages to resist rolling her eyes. “I didn’t say that you were.” She sounds like she’s arguing with a five-year old. “But...Do it for me then, yeah? Just a quick break. I haven’t seen you almost all day and I’ve missed you.”

The Doctor scrubs a hand up and down his face. Why is it that she’s so good at persuading him? Why is it that she need only ask and he’ll drop everything? He shouldn’t give in so easily to her and her wide eyes; he shouldn’t be so _weak_ \- “Fine.”

Her whole face brightens immediately, and he hates that his heart rate seems to triple in response.

Clara holds out her hand. “C’mon,” she says, like she’s offering him all of time and space, “let’s go.”

He slides his hand gingerly into hers, and then she’s pulling him after her, away down the steps and then through one of the hallways, laughing loudly when he just barely manages to avoid smacking his face on the wall when she makes a sharp turn. A little dazed, he pulls her to a stop, squinting at the door in front of them and trying to breathe properly again.

“This is the park door from earlier,” he says.

“Yes,” she replies, as if he’s a bit slow, “it is.”

“Well why’ve you brought me back here?”

In answer, she just swings the door open.

It’s night in the park now, with the moon hanging huge and bright overhead and the distant stars blinking down rather blearily at them. Smith appears suddenly out of the dark, swooping in and landing carefully on Clara’s shoulder. In the barely there light he glows dull red, like dying embers in a fire.

The Doctor must make a face at the dragon’s arrival, because Clara immediately points a finger at him. “No. Nuh uh. None of that. We are going to sit in this lovely park and have a wonderful time and you are not going to pout because I’m telling you right now that you’re not allowed to, okay?”

He grumbles a little bit, but eventually nods. “Okay.”

“Good.” Clara tugs at his elbow and he can do nothing after that but trail behind her obediently.

The TARDIS seems to have prepared for them, because several yards away from the entrance is a picnic blanket spread out across the ground and a bag of what appears to be food. The Doctor frowns at the back of Clara’s head.

“I thought humans generally had picnics during the day.”

She plops herself down onto the blanket and then grins widely up at him. “Oh, but this is no ordinary picnic,” she explains. “This is a picnic with a dragon.”

“I don’t understand what that means.”

“Oh you will.” She reaches for the bag and begins digging around inside of it until she finds whatever it is that she wants. When her hand comes back out of the bag, she’s holding a fistful of large marshmallows. “Now,” she says, “we do have to be careful because I’m still not sure how good Smith’s aim is…” And with that, she tosses the marshmallow up into the air.

At the peak of its arc, Smith lets loose a short blast of fire, and when the marshmallow falls back into Clara’s hand it is almost perfectly roasted.

“See?” she says, triumphant, holding the marshmallow up so that the Doctor can loo it. “A dragon picnic.” From the bag she pulls out some graham crackers and a large bar of chocolate, quickly opens both packages, and then sets about building a s’more. “I’m pretty sure Smith won’t accidentally set fire to this park, but just in case…” she glances up, “the TARDIS does have some sort of fire suppression system, right?”

The Doctor looks skyward, hoping that maybe she’ll miss the way he looks completely in awe of her. “Yeah. Yeah, we should be fine.”

“Excellent,” Clara says, reaching for his hand and then pulling him down to sit beside her, “because this s’more is mine; you’ll have to make your own.”

 

* * *

 

He takes her to a jungle where the natives seem to be made of plexiglass and are almost entirely see through. ("Being mostly clear," the Doctor explains, pointing out a group of men who are about to embark on a hunting trip, "greatly helps to camouflage them and keep them safe from predators." He takes a breath, squinting against the bright afternoon sun and starting to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. "Also, as a consequence of being see through, I suppose, they all wear their hearts on the sleeves, which makes them a rather...emotionally advanced race."

Clara opens her mouth to make the suggestion that maybe he could learn a lesson or two from them, but he narrows his eyes at her, as if daring her to say what he thinks she's going to say, so she decides it's probably best for her to keep quiet.

"Anyway," the Doctor says.)

Of course, Clara asks to bring Smith along. And of course, she makes The Face, so the Doctor really has no other option than to agree, begrudgingly, that the dragon can accompany them on their adventure.

That's what they're doing - having an adventure, dodging plants that may or may not be poisonous to Clara's feeble, human constitution - when the giant bird attacks.

One minute the jungle is calm, buzzing only with the occasional bug and the Doctor’s incessant chatter, and then next, everything is chaos; leaves and branches fly every which way as though caught in some terrific storm and from somewhere overhead comes a very loud, very high-pitched humming sound.

The Doctor turns around, hands over his ears, in just enough time to see the bird swoop down towards Clara.

There’s a split second when he remembers another life, another him, with a cloud above Victorian London and a pretty governess who promised to see the stars with him. His hearts stop. He thinks _No, not again_ and _Clara_ and then, just as the bird’s talons graze the back of her blouse, she stumbles to the ground. Smith appears on her back, pacing in a circle, protecting her, _claiming_ her. A burst of flame streaks up into the air in warning and the bird, nearly singed and annoyed at the loss of its meal, lets out a terrible _scrawk_ , and then flies away.

Clara pushes herself up from the ground, spitting out leaves and dirt. When her eyes meet the Doctor’s, she doesn’t say anything, just stares and breathes. He can practically hear her heart pounding away furiously inside her chest.

Eventually, Smith crawls up and over her shoulder, finding his way into her arms and then curling his tail delicately around her wrist and nuzzling at her chin. “Good boy, Smith,” she murmurs, holding him close. “Good boy.” Her hands shake as she slides her fingers over his scales.

It’s then that the Doctor realizes, somewhat distantly, that he’s shaking too. “Yes,” he agrees, gasping around the words, “good boy, Smith.”

He thinks that maybe he and the dragon are on the same page about Clara after that.

 

* * *

 

Clara insists that they have to take Smith for regular walks, which makes absolutely no sense to the Doctor at all because the TARDIS is basically endless and shouldn’t that be good enough for a miniature dragon?

It turns out that it’s not, apparently, a fact that he learns when a very cooped up feeling Smith sets fire to one of the kitchens.

“See?” Clara says, kicking at a very singed and dented mixing bowl. “I told you we needed to take him for a walk.”

The Doctor pretends not to hear her, but the first thing he does once he's back in front of the console is to type in a fresh set of coordinates and then go to find a suitable leash for their completely unruly dragon.

For reasons he probably should have considered, New York’s Central Park in 2050 is not the best place to walk a dragon. Even a miniature one.

“Is that a dragon?” a six-year old boy asks, wide-eyed and breathless with awe.

The Doctor scowls and before Clara can even get a word in says, “No, it’s our dog.”

“But he looks like -  ”

“He’s wearing a costume.”

“Then how come he has wings? And scales?”

“It’s a very good costume.”

He doesn't get to hear what the little boy thinks of that because Clara grabs the front of his hoodie and quickly drags him away. Smith follows obediently after, stretching his wings out and then giving a couple of slow flaps so that he can reach Clara's shoulder and perch there.

The Doctor manages to spin around in Clara's grasp as they reach the TARDIS doors, in just enough time to catch a glimpse of the six-year old's gaping mouth.

 

* * *

 

There’s not really a whole lot to do while Clara’s sleeping.

Before, when she hadn’t been full time, when he had been a hobby and she had very important human things to do, he could go on solo adventures or pop ahead to the next time he wanted to see her. But now, with her already with him, the latter doesn’t make any sense and the former...Well, Clara would kill him if he went for an adventure while she was asleep inside the TARDIS.

He’s found out recently though that he can only tinker with things that don’t really need to be fixed for so long before he begins to get antsy - for an adventure, for someone to talk to, anything. So that leaves him with almost nothing to do while she’s sleeping, which is annoying and boring and so not him.

He’s in one of these moods, pacing the console room almost manically, when Smith wanders in and almost sends him sprawling to the floor just by being underfoot.

The Doctor glares, attack eyebrows at the ready, mouth open to scold the dragon, when he realizes that he’s just found the answer to his dilemma.

“Smith!”

The dragon blinks calmly back at him.

“How would you like to learn about The Great Lunar War of 3048?”

Smith makes a noise somewhere between a meow and a bark that the Doctor takes to be a signal of great enthusiasm.

“Wonderful,” he says and picks the dragon up while simultaneously snagging a large history book off the console. Once he reaches his wingback chair, he sets Smith down on the arm and then settles back into the cushions himself. “Now,” the Doctor explains, flipping to the first chapter of the book, “what you really need to know is that everything started with the election of the first prime minister to the moon in 3030…”

 

* * *

 

They lose Smith once, on a Dalek spaceship in the middle of the Red Spider Nebula.

It’s neither one of their faults. They both just forget - in the race back to the TARDIS and away from the never-ending cries of “Exterminate!” - that they actually have a pet dragon and that said pet dragon actually accompanied them on this particular adventure.

Clara slams the TARDIS doors shut behind them as soon as they both manage to get inside. Without even pausing for breath, the Doctor runs over to the console and slams home a lever, sending them spinning off into the Time Vortex. When he looks up, Clara’s face has gone white as a sheet.

“Clara?”

“Smith,” she says, and the Doctor feels his stomach drop. “Where’s Smith?”

He doesn’t have to look around to know that the dragon isn’t with them, but he does it anyway in an attempt to give her some kind of hope. “I’m sure he slipped in behind us,” he says, slow and measured. “He can’t have gotten too far.”

She shakes her head. “I shut the doors so fast, I definitely would have seen him.” Her voice is too high and strained; it’s easy to tell that she’s trying desperately not to cry. “We have to go back, we have to find him! It’s my job to look out for him and keep him safe and I just left him there like he means nothing. _Please_ – ”

Something twists deadly sharp inside his chest. "Clara. Clara, it'll be okay."

"How can you think that?” she snaps, whirling on him. Her cheeks are mottled red now, and the Doctor backs away, holding his hands up in surrender. “How can you possibly even say that to me? I’m supposed to take care of him and I didn’t and nothing can change that now!” She swipes a hand angrily across her face. “Besides, you're just saying that because you're happy Smith is gone."

Everything screeches to a halt. He stares at her, horrified. "Why would you say that?"

She's walking towards him now, all fury and tears, and he thinks, he honestly thinks for a moment, that she is going to tear him limb from limb. "Oh come on! It's no secret that you didn't want Smith in the first place. And then there was the jealousy - "

"I was not _jealous_!" he splutters

The TARDIS suddenly whines, distressed. The lights overhead flicker and then flare brightly, as though she's trying to get their attention. Clara doesn't even seem to notice.

"I mean, you could have at least tried - "

"Shhh!" The Doctor holds a finger to his lips. "Just shush a moment."

" _Excuse me_?" She pulls up short, staring at him now with what can only be astonishment. "Did you just _shush_ me?"

"Yes, I did. And it's important so shush."

Clara’s hands find her hips, and he can practically feel her scowl burning its way into his skin, but honestly, this _is_ very important, so he turns away from her and glances up at the ceiling. “What is it? What are you trying to...”

The lights dim and somewhere, distantly, the TARDIS hums.

“ _Oh_.”

“What?” Clara asks. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, leaning down instead so that he can see under the console.

And there is Smith, settled between some loose wiring, right where everything tends to get hot if the console has recently been in use.

The Doctor sighs, slides a careful hand under the sleeping dragon, and then pulls him out. "Here," he says gruffly, pushing Smith into Clara’s arms, "here is your dragon." He spins away before he can see her reaction, but he knows her mouth will be open, aghast, her eyes probably inflating. Why witness it when he already knows what’s going to happen?

He doesn't get very far before Clara rushes suddenly after him, catching him in a big hug. "I'm sorry," she breathes into the fabric of his coat. "I'm so, so sorry."

The only thing he can think to do is pat her arm awkwardly.

 

* * *

 

Clara opens the door of the library to the sound of flapping wings and the Doctor laughing.

"Yes! Good boy, Smith. What a good boy!"

She stops so quickly she almost trips over her own feet. “Doctor?”

He doesn’t seem to hear her, but he continues talking loud enough that it’s fairly easy for her to follow the sound of his voice. When she finally finds him, he’s on the floor, wedged between a pile of faded Anthony Trollope first editions and a stack of revenge tragedy plays, holding small strips of meat out toward their pet dragon.

“Smith,” he says, and Clara can tell he’s trying and ultimately failing to hide his childish glee, “sit!”

When Smith obediently sits on the plush carpet, the Doctor throws him a piece of meat, and then schools his features so that he’s no longer grinning like a complete idiot. He holds up a finger. “Okay, now, find me... _101 Stars and Nebulae: A Cosmic Journey in Pictures_.”

Immediately, Smith takes to the air, speeding away until he finds a specific bookshelf and then crawling down the shelves, seemingly scanning the spines of each book.

Clara finally steps out from around the corner. “What on earth are you doing to poor Smith?” she asks, laughing.

The Doctor looks surprised but pleased to see her, the corners of his mouth curving upward before he can think to stop them. “Clara,” is all he has time to say because then a book falls into his lap, missing his head by only a narrow margin. He picks it up, checks the title, and then throws a strip of meat up into the air for Smith to catch. “I’m training Smith,” he says finally, when he looks up at her again.

“Training him?”

“Yeah, remember when I told you that Pyrofael bred dragons are really smart? Apparently they can recognize the shapes of certain words and letters, so I’m teaching Smith to retrieve books for me,” he says, holding up _101 Stars and Nebulae_ for Clara to see. “Plus,” he admits, ducking his head shyly, “I figured it would be good if he knew a few basic commands too, because, well, it wouldn't do for our dragon to be poorly behaved, would it?"

Clara grins broadly, but then tries to hide it from him, covering her mouth and letting her gaze drift over to Smith, who's now busy scaling a mountain of books the Doctor seems to have piled together for that express purpose. "No," she agrees. "No, it would not."


End file.
